Its the small, consistently available pleasures,
which make a man happy,
the more natural these pleasures,
the better...

a week or so back,
Winter turned to Spring,
mother nature flipped a switch,
the gaze of the sun goddess returned,
for at least a few hours every day,
sometimes...
those few hours fall upon that special period,
of arriving home from work,
walking the hound,
grabbing a book,
a vodka,
my tobacco,
and settling into the pink chair in the front garden,
beside the lemon tree...

I settle,
like the water of a pond after a stone or toe or finger has disrupted the serenity,
I drink,
I smoke,
I read Bukowski,
watch the world go by...

the exodus of 'finished the slog, on my way home' gang,
I look into their faces,
as I gulp more russian firewater,
take another drag on my rollie,
try to see who they are,
where they have been,
what they want...

but what seems to settle,
within my probing gaze,
is a measure of...
'are they happy, to be liberated from their shackles,
eager for mischief, for fun, for life?
Or is the weight of earning their daily bread,
ten tonnes on their shoulders,
which doesn't shift,
when the time to escape appears on the clockface?'...

The croatian neighbour,
with a friend visiting,
comes to my fence to greet my hound...
'does he bite???'
I laugh,
shake my head,
then think of my scarred nose,
that he mauled without restraint,
a few months back.
When I offered him a kiss,
as he slept on a tiny piece of pigs trotter...

'no, he doesnt bite'
I lie...
as the canine,
my son,
my only love here in this questionably voluntary exile from my homeland,
from my people,
wags his tail,
enjoys the attention,
and doesn't sink his teeth into their friendly hands...
he just licks.

I don't judge,
I simply observe,
write beautiful novellas in my mind,
as the world walks by,
with their headphones,
and designer satchels...